


The Chosen Boy

by Heliocat



Series: Ash Lynx: The Pre-Eiji Years [4]
Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Ash Lynx Needs A Hug, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Chosen Because He's Pretty, Fear, Forced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other, Prostitution, Underage Prostitution, new life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27530884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heliocat/pseuds/Heliocat
Summary: It could have been any of the boys at Club Cod chosen by Dino. In another universe or at another time, someone else would have taken his place. But no, he just had to be Dino's perfect type.PLEASE NOTE: No hardcore here. It is just a short story of how Ash was initially chosen by Dino. It focuses more on the psychological and tragic aspects.
Relationships: Dino Golzine/Ash Lynx (Unrequited), Marvin Crosby/Ash Lynx (Unrequited)
Series: Ash Lynx: The Pre-Eiji Years [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043208
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	The Chosen Boy

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: There is nothing hardcore in here - I physically and morally cannot bring myself to write that in good conscience, plus there are laws in my country I do not wish to break - but it's still tagged as underage due to the age of Ash at the time and the implication that things have been and will be done to him.
> 
> I'm playing around with the idea that Ash was chosen purely because he was beautiful and reactive, and it wasn't until later Dino started to twig he was more than just a pretty face and start properly educating him and grooming him to eventually inherit his wealth and power. 
> 
> I'm English, so British English has been used for spelling and grammar.
> 
> Many thanks to Akimi Yoshida for creating Banana Fish - this is a work of fanfiction, so I own none of the intellectual property.

He’d been there for over a year now. He couldn’t be exactly certain, as all the days that passed seemed to blur into one long mess and he had no clue what the date was any more, but judging from the cycle of the seasons he knew it had been a while. Listening to his captors, he knew that he was hot property, quietly becoming popular among the punters. He fetched a high price already, and had real potential to make them some serious money provided they could keep him alive. He had several regulars, the same men coming time and time again to… spend quality time with him. It was rare he had a night off. They hadn’t needed to drug him yet, like he had seen them do to the less obedient boys – he hoped to keep it that way. He’d figured out fast that the less you fight and struggle against them, the less they tried to pin you down. You were going to get fucked either way, so why bother.

That was rule number one. Don’t resist. Resist, and they beat and restrain you, or would keep you strung out on heroin, and then there’s no hope of escape. He’d seen kids die because they fought back; just do what they asked.

Sometimes, if you could hack it and play along with their requests, acted all smutty like they wanted you to be, they’d be gentler with you too. You’d get extra privileges. You’d get given treats, not that he cared too much for cookies or chocolate, or they’d turn a blind eye to you if you, say, disappeared for a few hours, provided you came back before the club opened for the evening, and didn’t go running to the cops. Kids who blabbed never got the chance to be drugged and restrained; snitches got despatched in a less-than-kind manner and dumped in the Hudson. He wouldn’t do that though. Cops wouldn’t do anything to help anyway. He lived for those perks, those brief glimpses of freedom, however small, when he could escape for a while. He’d recently befriended some street kids who were a little older than him and, if he couldn’t find Alex, Kong and Bones on his jaunts outside, he’d go to the library for an hour or two instead. It was the only thing keeping him sane, preventing him breaking down into an anxious mess.

He’d been dragged out into the private quarters along with four other boys of a similar age. He was second youngest at 11. The youngest, Craig, was 10, David and Simon were both 12, and Jim was 13. They were not related, and had all come from different places out of State. Craig was from Pennsylvania, Simon and Jim both Connecticut, David was Rhode Island and he was Massachusetts. All of them had been homeless or on the street for whatever reason, and had been enticed in with the promise of warm beds and food in exchange for a simple job in the ‘entertainment industry’. He, personally, was kicking himself for being so naïve; he’d had dealings with perverts of this nature even before becoming a runaway, and that had been with someone he thought he could trust. Why he had trusted a complete stranger, he had no idea. Letting his guard down had been detrimental, and for his briefest moment of error in judgement they had forced him from Boston to this hellhole as punishment.

Rule number two. Never trust an adult. Doubly so if they hold any level of authority, and triple if they act real nice to you. People normally only do that when they want something from you, or if they have some ulterior motive. Don’t fall for their lies. 

As well as being of a similar age, they were also all blonde, hair colours ranging from David’s dirty mouse-blonde, through Craig’s sunflower yellow to his own ashen platinum, and they were all Caucasian. Simon was the darkest on account of his freckles, but every one of them was white. Even there, though, he was the palest of the lot, his cool skin tone almost milk white and unmarred by moles or birthmarks. He knew there were kids of other colours and creeds here; he’d met a couple of Latinex boys, and there was a Chinese and a Black kid among their number too, as well as Caucasians with brunette hair, but the clientele tended to be inherently racist; the white kids were always most popular and fetched the larger price, and the palest blondes were prized most of all.

They were all dressed exactly the same way; a grey dress shirt, the exact same size, probably an adult S, judging by the way it fit him, and nothing else. No underpants, no shoes, nothing. He was lucky; he was still short and skinny, so it offered decent coverage, the cotton reaching below his knees, but poor Jim, who had almost an extra foot in height on him, and had started to bulk out as puberty crept in, kept pulling and holding it down at the front with his hands to try and remain decent.

They’d been lined up in front of a plush armchair, currently empty. The staff had gotten a little rough with Simon and Craig when they didn’t comply. Simon now sported a fresh bruise on his cheek from where he’d fought back and they’d hit him, and Craig had been pushed to the floor and then dragged back upright when he hadn’t followed orders fast enough. He was now crying quietly to himself, terrified, as they waited for whatever horrors were to come. David was trembling slightly with a combination of nerves and drug withdrawal; he would be heavily sedated most nights because he tended to scream otherwise. Simon would probably receive the same doping tonight, a punishment for not complying.

The door opened, and an overweight bald man in a tailored suit walked in. He was only average height, but his presence made him seem much bigger; even the grown-ups seemed to cringe away from him and showed him the utmost respect. He had a moustache, and shrewd eyes that regarded each of them in turn as he stood before them, peering at them like one would artwork. They lingered on him for an uncomfortably long time.

“Papa, we have gathered the merchandise who match your preferences.” It was Marvin who spoke. He was the one in charge of this establishment, a fat pig of a man, always sweating, always wearing sunglasses, even indoors, and likely had several mental complexes that had twisted him to the point he had barely any human compassion. Marvin was the type of man that, if you looked up ‘utter bastard’ in the dictionary, there would be a photograph of him there. He was mean and forceful, liked to hurt you, loved to fuck you until you cried, a power-hungry monster with no soul. He ‘tested the merchandise’ on the regular, and would gleefully do the ‘initiation rites’ on all the new boys brought into the club. He was always extra wary around Marvin; most of the staff ignored him when he went out, or only half-heartedly tried to stop him, knowing he had nowhere to go and would come back later, like an outdoor cat when it was time for food, but if Marvin caught you leaving or, worse, returning, he would punish you severely. He was absolutely petrified of him. Luckily, Marvin was usually away on business himself. He was careful to only sneak out when he was absolutely sure the brute of a man was away.

“Bring them over,” Papa said, taking a leisurely seat in the armchair. “I want to see them each separately.”

Jim went first, squirming with discomfort as hands ran themselves over his body. The shirt was unbuttoned, every inch of him scrutinised by Papa. Jim squeaked as the older man cupped his genitals, trying to shy away but finding himself clamped in place by two members of staff.

“He’s a little old,” Papa said, waving him away. “Next one.”

Craig and Simon went through the exact same treatment, prodded and poked like cattle at a meat market. Simon found himself brushed aside because of his freckles, Papa preferring an untarnished boy, and Craig just wasn’t quite pretty enough and was slightly overweight. David was dismissed without the physical exam; Papa said his hair was too dark and he didn’t like his eyes, plus it was obvious the boy was an addict and in failing health. He should be downgraded to the same price as the brunette kids; a discount blonde anyone could afford.

Then it was his turn.

Marvin himself held him in place while Papa fondled him. He shuddered uncomfortably under his touch, large clammy hands probing at his skin, biting his tongue to prevent himself from screaming or crying or showing any fear. Papa smelled of sickly-sweet burnt tobacco from Cuban cigars and had expensive cologne liberally splashed on, the overbearing odour of sandalwood and oud making him nauseous. He tried not to react as rough fingers checked his balls, ignored the way his ass was lovingly caressed, screaming inside the whole time. A hand cupped his chin, forcing his face upwards to make eye contact with Papa. He glared, green eyes intense and full of fire, staring the man right in the eye and refusing to look away, despite the fact he was quivering uncontrollably and had started to breathe funny as panic set in.

Rule three is to not let them see you are afraid. You can panic as much as you like later, after they’ve finished, in private and alone, but don’t show weakness. They love it when you do. They will use it against you, and make everything that much worse.

Papa seemed to be spending a lot longer examining him than he had the other boys. He kept holding his chin, forcing his head up and watching him closely while his free hand wandered over his body a second time. A thumb found a sensitive nipple, stroking it. He couldn’t help it – tried his best to hold it in, but… he let out a low, involuntary moan, more a whimper than anything, but it seemed to please the older man. He hated himself for that, hated the way his body reacted when they toyed with him. He didn’t want or ask for the attention, would beg for them to stop, but his body kept reacting positively to it against his wishes and they used that as unspoken permission to continue. The first few times it had happened, he hadn’t even understood what was going on. All he knew is it was scary and he felt unclean and impure afterwards. It hurt a lot, and felt unnatural and wrong and he somehow felt like he was at fault and had deserved it. His Dad had taken him to the police station the first time, so he knew something serious and bad had happened, but they’d done nothing to help and, apart from telling him to make sure he got paid, his Dad gave up on him too.

As time went on, he came to understand what rape was. And he learnt what a prostitute did.

“This one is almost a little too perfect,” Papa said, looking pleased. “Good bone structure, beautiful face, and that reaction to touch… where did you pick him up?”

“Farringdon found him loitering around Boston, but we don’t think he’s from there originally. When he speaks he sounds more rural Massachusetts, so we think maybe the Cape,” Marvin said.

“Massachusetts, hmm?” Papa said contemplatively. He finally released his chin and returned his hands to himself. “You can let him go, Marvin. Allow him to redress himself.”

Marvin released him, and he immediately started to re-button the shirt, small hands shaking making it tricky to push the buttons through the buttonholes.

“Tell me boy, what’s your name?” Papa asked him. He opened his mouth to answer, but his voice seemed to catch in his throat.

“Answer him, brat!” Marvin growled threateningly.

“A…Ash,” he responded. “Ash Lynx.”

“Sounds like a street name,” Papa said. “What’s your real name?”

He didn’t want to answer that. He’d all but abandoned his real name during his time on the Boston streets, had hoped to leave it and the pathetic person it embodied behind him at the Cape, although the more time went on, the more pitiful ‘Ash Lynx’ became as well. He shook his head slightly. Somehow, he felt like giving his real name would allow them to have too much power over him… Marvin grabbed him by the arm, twisting it up behind his back painfully, his other hand fisted into his hair, and he squealed.

“Tell Papa your real name!” he said dangerously, shaking him slightly, “Or I’ll break your arm!”

“A…Aslan!” he gasped, defeated. “M… my name is Aslan Jade Callenreese!”

“Marvin, let him go – I don’t want you damaging my merchandise unnecessarily!” Papa warned. Marvin released him and he clutched at his arm, gritting his teeth. “Aslan, hmm… I think I prefer Ash.”

Knowing that did not make him feel any better.

“I’ll take this one,” Dino told Marvin. “He will live in the mansion from now on, and I’ll send him back when someone requests his services from the catalogue, provided they can pay the new price and he’s not… otherwise engaged that day.”

“New price?”

“He’s valuable. You’ve been underselling him – from now on, let’s say… $2000 an hour. And it’ll likely increase as he gets more experience. I can see a lot of potential in him.”

“But… we’ll lose earnings that way! At least set a reasonable price people can afford – he doesn’t have any notoriety. He’s just started to get popular with some of our regulars. Let him gain a name as a good lay and let them tell others before your raise the price!”

“He’ll gain that notoriety, that I can guarantee, and I’m willing to pay you for the lost income,” Papa said, eyes flashing. “I assure you, he is worth more as a rare asset we can utilise to forge successful alliances than he is as a common whore. An extra bargaining chip, if you will, allowing our partners to spend a night with an exclusive unsullied beauty, rather than with some kid who’s had all and sundry pawing all over them.”

“You just want him all to yourself…” Marvin sounded a little annoyed at that.

“Maybe I am a little selfish in that respect, yes,” Papa admitted. “But ultimately, I own this establishment and everything in it, and therefore call the shots over what happens to the merchandise.”

“What happened to your last little pet?”

“Zander ended up being a disappointment,” Papa lamented. “He grew into an ugly teenager, and was stupid as mud too. Never did quite please me. I… relieved him of his duty to me.”

That meant Zander had either been sent to another brothel somewhere, or he was dead. He shuddered at that. He did not want to end up like Zander, but… neither did he like the sound of the plans Papa had for him. Seemed he had been chosen to be the personal cum bucket of Papa, occasionally sold out to the highest bidder, or added as an extra incentive in a shady business deal.

“Don’t look so nervous, Ash,” Papa said, noticing his expression. “The mansion is nice. You’ll have free run of the house and garden, a personal tutor to train you in etiquette, and I’ll even let you go out sometimes to see your little street friends – oh yes, I know all about your sneaky trips into the city! I kind-of like moxie like that though. I might even be able to put you to work in other ways.”

Nice mansion, maybe, but he was still going to get fucked most nights. He found himself wondering if it would really be worth it. It wasn’t like he had any choice in the matter though.

“Get him cleaned up and dressed appropriately. I’ll have Gregory come and collect him in two hours,” Papa said, standing with a groan. He turned to him with a smile he clearly thought was reassuring, but which came across more like the wry grin a shark may give to a small fish it wanted to eat. “I’ll see you later, Ash. I look forward to getting to know you better.”

“C’mon then, you lucky little bastard,” Marvin grumbled, gripping his upper arm hard and painfully. “You heard what Papa said – let’s get you clean and presentable!”

He knew what that meant. The Club kept all of its merchandise hygienically clean and smelling of roses, because nobody liked a prostitute that stunk, but that didn’t mean you got the luxury of a bath. Every day, before the club opened, the kids would be lined up in a wet room, like a school shower block, and blasted with cold water from a hose. You’d be made to soap up thoroughly, to scrub every inch of your body while they watched leering from the side, before they rinsed you off again, leaving you clean and shivering. Sometimes, they’d grope you while you washed, like the whole affair was a big game. If an important client was coming in and had hired you, you’d receive ‘individual treatment’, which meant one of the staff would hold you down and personally ensure you were thoroughly ‘clean’ in all the important areas. Afterwards, you’d be handed a ratty towel to dry off, and they’d pass you your evening ‘uniform’, which was usually the shirt-no-trousers combo, but would sometimes be a demeaning outfit or special request, like a tuxedo, depending on the client’s fetish.

Marvin took great delight in rinsing him down with freezing water, watching him gasp and shiver from cold shock. Faster than he could react, the fat paedo had got both his wrists clamped tight in a meaty fist, and a sponge foaming with sulphur soap was roughly thrust between his legs, thoroughly scouring everything to a harsh cleanliness. Marvin laughed as he cried out and squirmed, taking his time so as to draw out the humiliation as long as possible.

“Papa said he wants you clean,” he mocked, a soapy finger coaxing his asshole teasingly. “Do you think he means in here too?”

He didn’t go so far as to insert his finger, but he took sick pleasure in seeing his eyes go wide, watching him flinch at the touch, hearing him whimper involuntarily and try to pull away from him.

“Dirty little fag, finish off the rest of you,” he said, releasing his hands and passing him the sponge, watching lustily as he washed himself. Marvin dumped a bucket of cold water over his head when he felt he was adequately clean, rinsing off the suds. He then thrust a threadbare towel at him. “Follow me,” he barked, once he wrapped the meagre piece of towelling around himself, shivering.

In a back room, Marvin handed him a clean pair of jeans, underpants, and a plain white shirt. He dressed quickly, keen to cover himself up as soon as possible. The clothing was all high-end labels; Levi’s jeans, Ralph Lauren shirt, Calvin Kleins. He’d never been so expensively dressed before. Generally, the kids were offered a free-for-all selection of misshapen old goodwill clothing to wear during the day, and they would fight over the good stuff. He was used to wearing oversized printed T-shirts with faded logos and jeans which, if he was lucky, only had a couple of holes or tears in them. Marvin then gave him a pair of plain white sneakers. These didn’t appear to have any branding, but they were new and clean, unlike his old plimsoles which had worn through both soles and the stitching was fraying. Marvin roughly pointed to a table with a comb and varying deodorants and colognes on it. He knew if he didn’t comply, Marvin would force himself onto him, so he took the comb in a shaking hand and ran it through his hair, slicking the damp locks back neatly as well as he could. He picked up one of the less-overpowering perfumes and dotted it onto his neck and wrists, hoping it was an adequate enough amount to satisfy the terrifying man watching and scrutinising his every action.

“You scrub up well, for a little shit,” Marvin growled at him, licking his lips suggestively. “I just hope you remember your place when Papa spoils you rotten. Once a whore, always a whore, kid.”

 _‘Once a bastard, always a bastard,’_ he thought silently back at him.

Marvin shut him in one of the private rooms the clients sometimes rented. It had leather banquette seating around a mahogany table peppered with watermarks from countless alcohol glasses. He tentatively perched on the very edge of the end of the padded seats, inhaling the smell of stale cigarettes that permeated the air, nervously awaiting his fate. He felt like hours passed, and he gnawed at his fingernails feverishly, biting them raw. Eventually, the door reopened, startling him as Marvin let a man he had never seen before into the room. He was a harsh looking, angular man, wearing a dark grey-brown suit that matched his unfeeling eyes. He had brunette hair and a goatee beard and, while thin, his body radiated a dangerous energy.

“Gregory, this here is the boy your Boss picked out,” Marvin told him. “Gotta say, he has decent taste at least.”

Gregory grunted but said nothing. He looked down at him with a sharp gaze, but it wasn’t predatory in any way. This man, at least, was not a paedophile or gay, but he was coming to know that it wasn’t usually attraction that caused people to abuse him the way they did, but rather a sick fascination with subjugation and power trips. Gregory, however, seemed more like the type who would beat the shit out of you rather than fuck you, and he looked strong under his suit, like a well-trained soldier. He held out a hand, beckoning him to follow him.

“Hope you enjoy your new life, Wildcat,” Marvin mocked him as he scurried after Gregory, leaving the restaurant and hopping into the back of an expensive looking car parked outside by the docks. “Papa will treat you right, of that I’m certain. Mark my words though… you haven’t seen the last of me.” Gregory slammed the door shut while Marvin laughed unpleasantly, glaring at him greedily through his shades. He considered giving the flabby fucktard a rude hand gesture through the window, but thought better of it; Marvin had just told him he wasn’t free of his influence, may never be truly away from it, and giving him the finger would just lead to punishment later. Gregory climbed into the driver’s seat and with a quiet thrum started the car and pulled away, driving him into yet another new phase of his life.

_‘And I bet it’s still just as miserable and distressing as everything else has been… The imprisoned personal fleshlight of a rich and influential mob boss. Will I ever know freedom again?’_


End file.
